Mannheim: rainy Saturday with no
money nor friend...
only Tequila can end the
boredom.
Try to reach London for a pocket
of hope;
we're children, we grope in the
dark.
Hugh spends his last Mark on
coffee and cheese...
I feel just like a refugee....
Rathaus-keepers and traffic
police,
middle-aged maids with rotting
teeth,
industrial magazines and old
Sunday Times:
reading material/bleeding lines.
What are we doing here?
Memorial menace, eager for
revenge,
has begun to bend our minds.
Shower-curtain imperative in the
presence of acid;
now, feeling placid is death.
I try to hold my breath as the
P.A. comes down....
here we all are in Ktown!
The Big Wheel never fails to
grind around...
it drags me up/it drugs me down.
Seven senses wonder 'Can this be
real,
Or am I become a performing
seal?'
Why are we dying here?
I walk the streets alone, try to
find a sign of love.
I've crushed the plaster-bone in
the freaky clubs.
I have bit the fruit
but all I live for is to play